We leave Dartmouth the next day, stay on the phone talking to each other, laughing as we drive beside one another—we pull off on the M3 just before we hit Lightwater.
We kiss again, have sex again in back of his car—because we’ve got lost time to make up for—and then when we get closer to London, the dread hits me.
It could barrel me over, the juxtaposition of how I’m feeling… such a peculiar mix.
I’m so happy, so in love, so relieved to be finally with Beej, properly, out loud, confessedly in love with him.
But there’s an encroaching shadow in the corner of my mind about having to tell Tom. About having to let him go. Because he’s important to me now, and I adore him.
It’s different than with BJ and we can’t pretend that it’s the same—it’s not. Tom wouldn’t even think it is.
If BJ’s water to me, Tom is wine. I don’t need him to survive, but I love him anyway; he tastes good, makes me feel better, makes me feel braver.
He’s nice to have around, and actually, in all unmetaphorical seriousness, I have no idea how I would have stayed afloat this year without Tom.
It’s strange, don’t you think, the way we attach to people.
The way our best intentions are cast aside, and the seed gets deeper into the soil of us than we planned and their place in our lives grow roots. I don’t think we’re supposed to love people lightly. I don’t think we’re supposed to love them a little bit and move on. Tom grew roots. It’s not his fault. I let him.
And I have a horrible, nervous feeling that maybe my sister was right about me, and if she was—what kind of person does that make me?
I ask for Tom to meet me in the park by my house.
He’s waiting for me on the bench.
The navy, Horsey lounge pants from Loro Piana with the brown, wool polo shirt and the matching suede sneakers from Fear of God for Ermenegildo Zegna.
Handsome as ever. The eyes Billie Eilish wrote the song about, I’m sure of it.
I walk towards him, swallowing nervously as I do. And I suspect he knows as soon as he sees me. It’s probably written all over me—BJ usually is.
Tom England looks up at me—this strange, closed mouth, sad-eyed smile.
He breathes out, his eyes drop from mine. “You’re back together.”
I sit down next to him, my hands heavy in my own lap. I nod, my mouth pulls into a reluctant smile. He shakes his head and gives me a small shrug; his eyes look a bit remorseful. “We kind of saw this coming—”
“I suppose.” I nod. “I didn’t see you becoming my best friend, though,” I tell my hands because I can’t face him.
He looks over at me, picks up my hand and holds it in his. “No, I didn’t see that coming either.”
He puts his arm around me, sighing as he looks out over the park. “So, are you already back together or just deciding you’ll be?” I glance over at him and my cheeks are pink. “Ah,” he says and chuckles—albeit a bit flatly. “You had sex.”
I twitch my mouth from side to side.
And then he asks me as though he genuinely cares, “How was that?”
I look up at him. “Do you really want to know?”
“No.” He smiles a little. “I don’t.”
I lean into him. “Thank you,” I tell him without looking at him. “For what you did for me.”
“What did I do for you?” He tugs on my blue, pavilion pleated, cotton shirt dress from Aje.
“Lots of things,” I say. “But mostly that you loved me.”
His mouth goes tight and he looks a bit embarrassed. “He tell you that?” I shake my head. “How’d you know then?”
“Because I know you now, quite well.”
“Oh.” He gives me a look. “I suppose you do.”
I watch him closely. “Are you okay?”
“I’ll be fine.” He nods, not meeting my eyes.
“You’ll need a new foxhole.”
He lets out a dry laugh. “I think I’m done with foxholes for a while.”
I sniff a laugh. “Me too.”
He nods, mouth pursed and then drops his arm from around me, turning to me. His face goes serious, eyebrows dropping in a sort of serious low. “I’ve got to say something—and it might sound self-serving, but I’m not trying to be.”
I shake my head at him. “You never are—”
“He’s going to hurt you again,” he tells me without flinching.
My heart climbs a little up my throat.
I shake my head. “No—”
“Yes.” He nods.
“Tom—”
“Magnolia.” He shakes his head. “I’m not telling you to change your mind. I couldn’t, anyway. You two are”—he pauses, looking for the word—“bound.”
He says that like it’s a hopeless thing.
But he’s right. We are.
“I can’t undo that—I’m not trying.” He shrugs. “I’m just telling you, so someone has—he’s going to hurt you again, and I don’t know that I’ll be here when he does.”
